


dear forgiveness, i saved a plate for you

by TheFlirtMeister



Series: in the back of the car as the lights go by [2]
Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Developing Relationship, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, References to rape/self harm, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 21:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlirtMeister/pseuds/TheFlirtMeister
Summary: “Where do you want to go?”Roman raises his eyebrow. “You know where I want to go.”“I can’t give you that.” Peter says plainly, and steals one of Roman’s fries.





	dear forgiveness, i saved a plate for you

**Author's Note:**

> god i just??? love them so much??

They stop for McDonalds in the early hours of the morning, late enough that the only other people in the restaurant are construction workers. The green reflective jackets they wear hurt Roman’s eyes, and he taps his foot impatiently as he waits for Peter to come back from the counter.

It’s their third month on the road, and Roman is tired, so fucking tired. Peter has been driving them, in Roman’s sleek black car, almost as if he doesn’t trust Roman not to drive them straight back to Hemlock Grove. Roman misses Shelly like mad, misses the crowds and how unsettling the town is. He wants to go _home_.

 “Here.” Peter drops a tray of food onto the table and then slides into the seat opposite Roman. “I got you a burger and fries.”

“No dessert?” Roman asks, and Peter rolls his eyes.

“You don’t need a dessert, you’re fat enough already.”

Roman kicks him hard under the table, and Peter kicks him in the shin. Roman hisses in pain, and then grabs his food from the tray, pulling it closer to himself protectively.

“Relax, I’m not going to steal it.” Peter says, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth. “I’m not a dick.”

“Could have fooled me.” Roman says, and takes a bite of his burger.

It’s cheap, greasy bun, meat that isn’t meat, gherkins when they’re not needed. Roman can practically feel it clogging up his arteries, the weight of it burrowing deep into his bones. It’s delicious.

Roman eats so fast that it hurts him, a pain deep in his stomach. Peter eats quickly too, but he’s experienced at shoving as much food into his mouth as possible and then running. Roman is not yet used to this life, he’s green to escape.

“Don’t throw up.” Peter says suddenly.

Roman’s hands are linked together, resting over his stomach. He feels like he’s going to projectile vomit over the table, over Peter.

“I won’t.” He promises.

Peter slides his bottle of water across the table, nodding towards it. “Drink it.”

Roman uncaps the water and then takes a long drink, washing out his mouth. “Thanks.”

Peter gives a shrug, tearing the bread from his burger into long strips. He tosses it up into the air, and then catches it with his mouth. Roman is reminded of when he tossed raw meat for Peter’s wolf, a private game between the two of them. Roman enjoyed the snap and flash of teeth.

“Where are we going next?” Roman asks.

“I don’t know.” Peter replies, and chews on his bread. “Where do you want to go?”

Roman raises his eyebrow. “You know where I want to go.”

“I can’t give you that.” Peter says plainly, and steals one of Roman’s fries.

*

Waffle House at 2 in the morning, surrounded by stoned teenagers and men experiencing the midlife crisis. Roman watches the teenagers hungrily, their languid movements, the dilated pupils, the red raw eyes. He wishes he was the type of person who could slip easily into conversation, make them laugh, score a joint or two. Instead he stands out, fidgeting as he sits in the booth as Peter scans the menu.

“You hungry?” Peter asks, as Roman’s stomach rumbles.

“I could eat a horse.” He replies.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Peter says, and glances at Roman over the top of the menu.

Roman, if he was a normal person, would blush. Two nights ago, they had run out of blood supplies, and they’d had to pull over on the side of the road. Roman had clambered over the fence of a nearby farm and killed a cow.

Peter had watched him, arms folded, stone faced, as Roman fed greedily from its neck. He had felt disgusting doing it, covered in mud and god knows what, sucking from the gaping wound in the cow’s throat. He felt like an animal himself.

“Finished?” Peter had asked when Roman stood, swaying slightly, blood dripping down his chin.

“Yes.” Roman had replied, blunt, dizzy with the feeling of fullness.

“Good.” Peter had said, equally as eloquent.

For a brief moment, Roman thought that Peter would step forward and kiss him. That he would lick the blood from him, like a bitch and her pups, and kiss him on the mouth. Instead, Peter had turned towards the car, and Roman had followed. Roman had always followed.

In the Waffle House, Roman’s thoughts are broken by the arrival of their waitress. She’s small, blonde, with hair swept up into a bun. Roman looks her up and down, in another life he would have fucked her in the toilets, asked her to cut him with his pocket razor.

Instead, he points at the menu. “I’ll have the All Star special. Please.”

“Wonderful. And for you?” She looks towards Peter, notebook and pen poised.

“Steak and eggs.” Peter says, “Ask them to cook my steak as raw as possible.”

“Great!” She beams at them both. “I’ll be back right away with y’alls order.”

She bounces away, unnaturally cheery for 2 in the morning. The stoned teenagers are making a sculpture out of sugar packets that bears a suspicious resemblance to Stonehenge. The men going through the midlife crises have their heads in their hands, staring down at their cups of black coffee.

“Do you want to fuck her?” Peter asks, voice cutting through Roman’s thoughts.

Roman shrugs. “Do you?”

Peter mimics the gesture. “If she was into it. Maybe.”

“Was Letha into it?” Roman asks.

“Yes.” Peter plays with his fork idly, pressing it in the spaces between the fingers on his other hand. A poor man’s five finger fillet. “Was Letha into it with you?”

Roman cannot hide the full body revulsion that shudders through him. “I don’t remember it.” He says.

(He remembers a girl, and light, and ouroboros.)

“It’s a good thing you don’t.” Peter says, and looks up at Roman. “I’d kill myself if I could remember a thing like that.”

Roman lays his arms out on the table, pulling up the sleeve to display the scars that run from his palm down to his elbow.

“I already have.” He says simply, and they fall silent together.

*

Ice cream outside a service station, leaning against the hood of the car. Roman is eating a vanilla soft serve with flake, pushing the chocolate down into the ice cream to eat later. Peter sucks obscenely on a red ice lolly, staining his mouth red.

It's burning hot, to the point that Roman is uncomfortable leaning against the car. They’re both dressed for the weather, shorts, light shirts. Roman’s tank top shows off his arms, and he pretends to ignore the stares as people pass them.

“Hey, do you remember that ice cream place, in Hemlock?” Peter asks, twirling the lolly in his mouth.

“Yeah.” Roman says, not looking at him. “Why?”

Peter shrugs. “Just remembered it.”

“I once picked up a prostitute there.” Roman says, and Peter snorts.

“You’re kidding?” He turns towards Roman, red ice melting down his hand.

“It was before your time.” Roman says.

Peter nudges him. “Tell me about it.” He says, and Roman does.

*

Burger King on the road, Roman snatching bites of food as he drives. Peter doesn’t trust him to keep one hand on the steering wheel, but Roman’s always been a fan of near-death experiences. They’re arguing with each other between mouthfuls of food, Peter rolling his eyes as he shoves fries down his throat.

“I’m just saying,” Roman says, waving his burger for emphasis. “They _could_ have faked the moon landing.”

“In the Sixties?!” Peter says, “They didn’t have any special effects or anything. They couldn’t have faked it!”

“Well the footage is really shit, isn’t it?” Roman says, “It’s not like, crystal clear. It’s just a man walking around on a rock.”

“Jesus Christ.” Peter says. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“They faked it because they knew what they would find on the moon.” Roman says, and takes a bite of his burger, chewing loudly.

“Like fucking what?” Peter rolls his eyes so deeply that it must give him a headache.

“Aliens!” Roman announces, and then speeds up to overtake a car. “Obviously!”

“Aliens don’t exist!” Peter says loudly, sticking out his tongue at the people in the car beside them.

“Yeah they do!”

“Bullshit!”

“Vampires exist!” Roman says, pointing to himself. “Werewolves exist! Why not aliens?!”

“Because-“ Peter says, and then stops to think it over. “Because they don’t!”

“That’s not a good enough answer Rumancek.”

“Oh fucking bite me.” Peter snaps, and Roman bares his teeth at him playfully.

They’re silent for a moment, with only the roar of the cars on the highway to fill the gaps. They’ve been driving for hours, stuck together in an enclosed space, no hope of stopping. Somehow, they haven’t managed to kill each other, even though Roman has given Peter so many chances.

“I think your mother was an alien.” Peter says. He’s sucking on his fingers, licking up the grease.

“I think you might be right.” Roman says. “Wall eyed cunt.”

Peter snorts. “Like mother like son.” He says.

Roman glances over at him, deliberately making his eyes go in different directions. “What did you say to me?”

Peter laughs, hitting Roman on the shoulder. “Look at the road you idiot.”

Roman grins, turning back to the windshield. “Maybe I was the alien all along.”

“An alien vampire.” Peter says. “The History Channel would have a field day.”

“I’d be an afternoon special.” Roman says.

“You are an afternoon special.” Peter says, and throws his wrappers out the window. “We should go to Roswell.”

“We should.” Roman says, and likes the way that ‘we’ sounds on his tongue.

*

Dinner at a fancy restaurant, paid from a wallet of a dead man. He had drunkenly groped a teenage girl, and Roman had stalked him down and drunk from him in a dark alley as Peter went through the man’s pockets.

There was a lot of money, more than either of them had expected. Peter tucked most of the money away, to pay for gas and hotel rooms, but he grins as he waves the rest of the cash in Roman’s face.

“Dinner, my good Sir?” He had asked, green bills casting a shadow against his face.

“Excellent, my Lord.” Roman had replied, doffing an imagery hat, blood covering his face.

The restaurant is dark, with paintings on the wall and a man playing piano in the corner. Roman and Peter are definitely underdressed, but the waiter greets them nicely and leads them to a table. Roman feels at home here, but he’s started to feel more at home in fast food outlets, with Peter by his side.

“Let’s pretend we’re rich.” Peter says, studying the menu.

“I am rich.” Roman says, running his finger down the wine list.

“Not anymore.” Peter says, without looking up. His brow is furrowed, and Roman wants to lean across and kiss away his worries. The thought stuns him, and he distracts himself by adding up the prices of the red wine.

They order different food for once, rare steak for Roman and seafood pasta for Peter. They order wine too, a bottle between them, and it goes down easily like water. The waiter is attentive, without being intrusive, and Roman feels so happy he could fly.

“Can I try some?” Peter asks, nodding towards Roman’s plate.

“If you have to.” Roman says, but cuts Peter a chunk of meat. He expects Peter to reach over and grab the piece himself, but instead Peter leans back in his seat, staring at Roman.

Roman spears the meat with his fork, and leans across the table. Peter leans in too, opening his mouth, and Roman places the food on Peter’s tongue. The sound of Peter’s teeth biting down on the metal of the fork seems to veberate around the room, but of course, only Roman can hear it.

Peter chews, and then swallows. Roman stares at his mouth, the gleam of oil against his lips, and the way that Peter’s adams apple bobs in his throat. Peter looks back at him almost lazily, and Roman wonders what the fuck his game is.

“It’s good.” Peter says simply, and it’s not enough, it’s never enough.

*

Fresh fruit from stalls on the side of the road, plump peaches with juice that trickles down the corner of Roman’s mouth, cherries that stain his skin red, oranges that are sour enough to make his eyes water.

They sit in traffic on the highway, gorging themselves silly on fruit. Roman takes delight in crisp tart apples that fizzle on the tongue, their skins dusty and mottled. He takes big bites from the flesh, one hand on the steering wheel, even if they haven’t moved in what feels like hours.

“What do you think is causing the traffic?” Peter asks. He’s eating strawberries whole, green stem crunching between his canines.

“Maybe my mother’s people are looking for us.” Roman says, startling himself. Hemlock Grove has not been on his mind for weeks.

“We’re too far away.” Peter says, eating another strawberry. “They wouldn’t expect us all the way out here.”

“I guess so.” Roman says, and takes another bite of apple. He thinks of Hemlock police, of men who called Roman a cocksucker, and who hated Peter for the simple fact that he was Peter.

“Are you planning on dying like Alan Turing?” Peter asks, interrupting Roman’s thoughts.

Roman looks at the apple in his hand. He’s reached the core now, brown seeds standing out against the white flesh. Seeds that contain cyanide.

(Roman cannot die but by god he’ll try)

“No.” Roman says, and tosses the core out of the car window.

*

Driving on the road for hours, and only stopping for several minutes to grab food and pee, takes a toll. This is how Roman finds himself drunk in a children’s playpark, hanging upside down off the monkey bars, kebab sour on his tongue.

“God I fucking hate tequila.” Peter says, laying on the slide. He’s upside down too, for no apparent reason other than it’s funny.

“Same.” Roman says, and burps. “I fucking hated that kebab too.”

“Kebabs are good.” Peter says, pushing himself slowly down the slide. Roman watches him go, the way that Peter moves like an overweight snake.

“You’ll eat anything.” Roman says. “You wolf.”

“You’ll eat anything too!” Peter complains. “Anyone, even!”

Roman drops from the monkey bars, landing awkwardly. He pulls himself upright, staggering a little on his feet, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Peter is going in and out of focus, so Roman drops to his knees, rolling onto his back beside Peter.

“Hey.” Peter says.

“Hey.” Roman replies.

(Tomorrow night they will share a bed together. They will kiss.)

“I miss my mom.” Peter says, like a little boy.

Roman thinks of Olivia. Of cruel words. Of kind words. “I sometimes miss my mom too.”

Peter reaches out and takes hold of Roman’s hand. He rubs his thumb over Roman’s knuckles. Roman blinks slowly, wondering why his eyelashes are so wet.

“I think that kebab really was a mistake.” He tells Peter, and Peter laughs.

“You posh boy.” He says, releasing Roman’s hand. “I’ll make a man out of you yet.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Roman says, and smiles.

*

They’re both so tired that they order room service up to the hotel room. Roman is close to passing out, only stopped by the fact that his stomach aches like Peter has punched him. Peter is much the same, yawning as he pads around the room.

Roman is already in bed, under the covers, but sitting up against the headboard. He’s only in his boxers, because he no longer owns pyjamas, and is watching Peter sleepily as he undresses. Peter has a laziness about him, the way he pulls off his shirt from the back, throwing it onto a nearby chair.

Somebody knocks on the door, and Peter crosses the room to open it. He’s only wearing his trousers, and the hotel porter, a young woman, blushes when she sees him.

“You ordered room service?” She asks, and Peter nods, stretching with his arms above his head to show off his armpits.

“Yeah, bring it in.” He says, voice low.

The girl pushes a small tray table into the room, blinking at Roman in bed. She carefully uncovers the silver dome dishes, revealing mac and cheese and cookies. Roman’s stomach grumbles, and the girl looks up at him.

“Hungry?” She asks kindly.

“Starving.” Roman says.

Peter snorts, searching through his wallet for a tip. “Here,” He says, handing her a $10 note. “Thanks.”

“Oh, thank you.” She takes the money, tucking it into her pocket. “I hope you and your boyfriend enjoy your meal!”

Peter and Roman blink at her, but the girl seems oblivious. She flashes them both a winning smile, and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Peter stands in the middle of the room, staring at the space where she was, and then his eyes flick to Roman.

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” Peter asks slowly, as if Roman is some fragile animal he has to placate.

“No, I’ve just been following you around for the sake of it.” Roman says, “Yes, Peter. You idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot.” Peter grumbles, picking up a cookie from the table. He takes a bite of it, and his eyes flutter shut. “Oh my god. I want these cookies to be my boyfriend.”

“I come second to eggs and flour?” Roman asks.

“Of course.” Peter says, and then tosses a cookie to Roman. “Try.”

Roman takes a bite, and then nods his head. “These are good. Not as good as me though.”

Peter shrugs, eating the rest of his cookie in three bites. He wipes his fingers on his trousers, and then crosses the room to where Roman is in the bed. They look at one another, and then Peter ducks his head, pressing their mouths together.

“You taste good.” Peter murmurs.

“Wonderful.” Roman says, and pulls Peter close.

**Author's Note:**

> pls comment if u read! (im unsure about this fic so HIT ME WITH UR OPINIONS)


End file.
